Frosted Heart
by Melantha Frost
Summary: Pre-movie. Cold and dark. Young and old. Winter and fear. They're really one and the same. Aren't they?


Intricate patterns of frost grew, starting from a tree and spiraling out throughout the area. Wind blew across drying clothes, fluttering papers, and bundled kids playing in the fallen leaves. Frozen crystals fell gently across the sky as a lone figure walked through the shadows. A long, thin shadow swung in his grip.

He glared at the kids who dared to have fun in his presence. He glared at the beautiful sunset that would soon give way to the peeking moon. To be more specific, the nosy Man in Moon.

The 'big man' had taken everything away from him. He had sensed Death, sensed her send him to Paradise. Then a bright flash had ripped him away from her cold, yet comforting arms. The feeling was something akin to having your heart torn, shredded, and stomped on. To come so close to being reunited with your deceased loved ones, yet taken away as if the last glimpse was a cue for action.

~~P~~

Pitch Black was your average spirit. He didn't bother anybody. Tall, dark, silvery-gold eyes that looked into your very soul...

He was the Nightmare King.

Every night, he sent out his servants to give night terrors where they were necessary. Sometimes he had an urge to spread fear himself. This was one such night.

Years, centuries later, he would wonder how. How he could trust anybody after being put down time and time again. How he could put up with such a caustic brat. But deep in his soul (no, not heart, for there was no heart to look into), he knows why.

Sometimes the Boogeyman just wanted to walk. It made him feel... Normal. Yes, it's cheesy and sentimental, but it was nice to pretend that you didn't have a 24/7, 365/yr job. To pretend he was a carefree man. Pitch observed the children moving, chasing the cold pieces of magic. These children did not need courage. They did not have to be exposed to the evils of this world yet.

Lights flickered and flashed as he passed, quick as a heartbeat. Nobody noticed, they could not be yanked from their imaginary playground. The people in the US were not as weighed-down as those in less fortunate countries. It was relatively easy to scrape by and have fun in this corner of the world, and time period.

The Guardians would have no trouble bringing wonder, hope, dreams, and wistful memories. Everybody here was fi-

A shadow. A shadow not of his own creation. A teen, holding a sort of stick. Maybe a scythe? But no, he sees now. The boy was holding a tall, carved staff with a hook on the end. It shimmered in the cold air. The figure itself seemed to be a shell of his former self, or maybe a ghost. He blended in with the shadows almost as well as Pitch.

Pitch considered the other, discreetly appraising. The boy was in better focus now, like a camera being adjusted. His hair was a dove white, skin pale. He wore a hoodie adorned with a fern-like frost, and he was walking bare-foot. His eyes - oh Manny, his eyes. On one hand, they were smooth pebbles worn down by the weight of the world. If you looked closely, they were hard, jagged boulders, despising each and every one of us, living or not. An aura seemed to cloud him, gloomy and restraining. The wind, which seemed to follow the boy, whispered sweet nothings, comforting nonsense.

The shock of white hair looked up, like a startled deer, and caught the King of Shadow's gaze. His eyes widened and filled up with joy (or relief, he couldn't tell) but was covered up with wariness. The wind blew harder, into a small cyclone beneath it's friend, and carried him away. The remaining breeze murmured a name.

Jack Frost.

~~J~~

Aurai gathered the wind underneath me and sent me to my lake. She was grounding me! I mean, yeah, it was a bit cruel to let that car slide, and then I glared at the one person who could (maybe) see me. But she didn't have to ground me!

I guess Aurai could sense the pout on my face, because she slapped me (as well as a warm breeze could). My hands rose in the universal sign of surrender, which seemed to work, for she stepped a ways away. The eerie silence seemed to grow the farther she went.

I sat down on the lake, on the very spot that I dropped into the cold, unforgiving water, leaving behind his family -

NO! I will not, cannot, think about this. A breathy sigh escaped me as I wondered if Aurai knew how much she was torturing me right now. She probably does.

~~P~~

Shadows wrapped around him and warped to Burgess. It was night there, time for him to help spread fear, and thus courage. Well... That was his original intention. He didn't move when he arrived. Because it was summer. Right? Either that, or he's hallucinating...

Snow covered the ground. Like a blanket. And it was summer. Grey hands scrubbed at silver eyes, not believing (which was ironic, since all he wanted was to be believe in) what he was seeing.

Unless global warming was real (it's common knowledge to spirits, it was not), this was impossible. Snow, in Burgess, in the US mainland? In summer? No, not possible. Yet it there it lay, disproving his vehement refusal to accept the chills. Until he saw a spirit he hadn't seen in years jump around with joy.

"Jack Frost." A whisper, amplified by the jubilant wind, carried over to the boy perched on a power line like an acrobat on a tightrope. His head snapped towards the dark man, eyes wide with shock, 'He sees me!' written all over his face. Jack jumped nimbly from his 'branch' to the ground, twirling his staff in one hand. His other lay in his frosted pocket. Shorter by a head, Pitch should not have been intimidated, he was the Preacher of Fear after all. Yet he stood rigid as the teen circled him, doing the very thing he himself had done during their first encounter. Appraising. Inspecting. Scrutinizing.

Apparently he had deemed him trustworthy, no matter how fragile that trust was. Pitch could only wonder why Jack would trust him of all spirits. Maybe he sensed the loneliness in the dark spirit, or maybe he remembered that impromptu meeting a few decades ago?

An icy cold hand stretched out towards the robed arm. It was not hesitant, but delicately gentle, in a way that spoke of the power only Old Man Winter held. Yet he was innocent, playful, mischievous enough to play with the children. In the moment his fingers touched Pitch's, they would come to an understanding. They were not alone in this world filled with flames. They were companions, familiars, friends.


End file.
